by Anne Mather
She had changed before they left, and she was now wearing a long-sleeved burgundy sweater over pleated taupe chinos that accentuated the slender elegance of her body. She looked pale, but determined, and he knew quite a ridiculous sense of responsibility for her. She wasn’t his concern, he told himself. He was only here because it suited his purposes. But the fact remained that she disturbed his equilibrium, and the feelings of remorse she aroused in him wouldn’t easily be displaced.
Even sitting in the motorway diner at lunchtime, eating sandwiches that had as much taste as cardboard, he’d felt that unwanted connection between them. And the fleeting trace of defeat in her expression tormented him still. He’d wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake some life into her, was tempted to grind his mouth against hers until she opened to him, if that was what it took to get some reaction from her.
Which was stupid, and he knew it.
Nevertheless, he was beginning to realise that accompanying her to Mattingley might not be the most sensible thing he’d done. Whatever happened, it was bound to bring back memories he’d much rather remained buried. His wisest course would be to do what was necessary and get out of there as soon as he possibly could.
He found the gates of Mattingley easily enough. Tall, iron gates, rusting now with age, they were set in a crumbling stone wall and stood wide, as if inviting trespass. But then, if what Jake had heard was anything to go by, there was nothing at Mattingley worth trespassing for.
Certainly the weed-choked grounds bore out what Isobel’s mother had told him in one of her not-infrequent phone calls begging for money. Not that Lady Hannah would have called it begging. As far as she was concerned, so long as he was married to her daughter he had a duty towards Mattingley, just as Isobel did.
‘Is this it? Are we here?’ Emily had released her seat belt and was now leaning forward to wedge her face between the seats, her eyes dark with disappointment. ‘What a dump!’
‘It’s not a dump,’ said Isobel reprovingly, her eyes darting to Jake’s, as if seeking his support. ‘It just needs work, that’s all.’
‘It would take a JCB to clear this,’ retorted Emily gloomily. ‘I thought you said it was a beautiful place.’
‘It was a beautiful place when your mother was young,’ declared Lady Hannah, proving she was awake and had heard her granddaughter’s complaints. ‘And it can be again. With the right attitude.’
‘And the odd million pounds,’ murmured Jake, almost under his breath, but he realised at once that Isobel had heard him.
‘We don’t need your money,’ she muttered scathingly, before turning to ask her mother how she was feeling, and Jake felt an increasingly familiar sense of inadequacy at her words. Which got under his skin. Dammit, he was doing her a favour here, not the other way about.
They bumped up the long drive that led between tall limes and oak trees that, like the rest of the vegetation, were badly in need of attention. An algae-covered pond looked dank and uninviting between the trees, and the stone terraces which had once been such a feature of the house were now almost unrecognisable beneath a film of green moss.
‘Is the house like this?’ asked Emily, and although Isobel hadn’t said anything Jake guessed she’d been worrying about that, too. Her mother was a sick woman, and, however desperate she was to spend her last days at Mattingley, Isobel would not want to precipitate the event.
‘Let’s hope not,’ he answered her, realising Isobel was having a hard time thinking of a reply. ‘Still, you have to admit it is impressive, Em. And you’re its only heir.’
‘Unless you and Mummy have another baby,’ she countered, proving she hadn’t given up on her original claim, and Jake’s mouth flattened.
He’d just realised how easily he’d called her ‘Em’, as Isobel did. The name had slipped naturally from his lips and he knew he had to guard against becoming too familiar with her. The trouble was, he liked her. He thought she had spirit. And why not? he thought bitterly. She was Piers Mallory’s daughter and no one could have accused him of lacking in confidence.
‘That’s not likely, Emily,’ put in her grandmother at that moment, reminding Jake that, however useful he might be to her financially, she still regarded him as an interloper. ‘Now, hand me my bag, will you? We’re almost there.’
To Jake’s relief, the house itself looked fairly sound. Its mellow stone façade looked almost imposing in the last rays of the setting sun, its windows glinting like so many jewels in the evening light.
The house rose a couple of storeys above its ground-floor apartments, with two rows of long windows flanking the heavy oak door. Jake knew, because Isobel had told him, that the wings that jutted at either end of the main façade had been added in the nineteenth century, while the main building was some hundreds of years older. He also knew, from experience, that although many improvements had been made over the years, its draughty halls and high-ceilinged rooms were almost impossible to keep warm.
The door opened as the Range Rover crunched across the turnaround at the top of the drive and an elderly woman emerged. Mrs Edwards, Jake recognised wryly, wondering how Isobel could ever have thought the old housekeeper capable of looking after them. She was frail and stooped, and even Lady Hannah looked stronger than she did.
‘You go ahead,’ he said, when Isobel hesitated before opening her door. ‘Get your mother settled. I’ll unload the car.’
‘I’ll help you,’ said Emily eagerly, and although he knew he should tell her to go with her mother and grandmother he couldn’t find it in his heart to refuse her. He had the feeling that staying here was going to be no fun for the child, and he wondered how she was going to continue her education without any formal tuition.
Isobel paused only long enough to say ‘Thanks’ before slipping out and opening her mother’s door. Then, after greeting the old housekeeper, the three of them disappeared into the house.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Emily, following Jake around to the back of the car, and he pulled a wry face.
‘That depends how strong you are,’ he remarked lazily, and she gave him an indignant stare.
‘I’m very strong,’ she insisted, and Jake smiled before starting to haul Isobel’s bags and holdalls out of the vehicle.
In fact, she proved quite useful in helping him install everything in the vaulted reception hall, only pausing now and again to make some comment about their surroundings. He guessed she was doing her best to find something positive to say, and his admiration for her grew in spite of himself.
‘Did you and Mummy ever live here?’ she asked, stopping to regain her breath, and Jake decided to be honest with her.
‘We stayed here a few times,’ he said, feeling an unexpected twinge of pain at the memory. ‘But our home was in London.’
‘So why was I born at Mattingley?’ persisted the girl curiously. ‘Was that after you and Mummy split up?’
Jake sighed. ‘Surely your mother has told you all about it,’ he said, picking up a box of china and glassware that Lady Hannah had insisted had to come with them. ‘Come on, you can carry those candlesticks.’
‘Why has Granny brought candlesticks?’
Emily was briefly diverted, and Jake was grateful. ‘Don’t knock it,’ he said. ‘You may be glad of them if the power goes down.’ He paused. ‘Besides, they’re very valuable. Solid silver, so your grandmother would have us believe.’
Emily was sharp. ‘Don’t you believe it?’
‘I believe everything I’m told,’ replied Jake drily. ‘Now, don’t trip. I know they’re heavy.’
‘Not that heavy,’ said Emily scornfully. Then, just as he was beginning to breathe easily again, she returned to her earlier topic. ‘Why wasn’t I born in London? Mummy says it’s not important, but I want to know.’
Jake dumped the heavy box of china on the floor of the hall and then straightened, flexing his aching spine. ‘Because your mother was staying with your grandmother at the time,’ he answered her trut
hfully. He grunted as his muscles protested at the unusual workout. ‘Thank God there’s not much more.’
‘Granny says we shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain,’ Emily reproved him primly, accompanying him outside again. She bit her lower lip. ‘Is that why you don’t like Granny? Because she’s very stern and strait-laced?’
Jake couldn’t stop the grin that tilted his lips. ‘Don’t let her hear you saying that,’ he teased, but Emily wouldn’t let him distract her.
‘Is it?’
‘Did I say I don’t like your granny?’
‘No, but I can tell. And its not just because you think she doesn’t like you.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’ Emily sighed. ‘All right, then, why doesn’t she like you?’ Her cheeks were suddenly tinted with becoming colour. ‘I do.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ Jake felt an inappropriate surge of pleasure. Then, sobering, he said softly, ‘I think you ought to ask your grandmother that. Not me.’
‘But you know, don’t you?’ Emily persisted. ‘Is it because of me?’
Jake closed his eyes for a moment against the anxious enquiry in hers. How was he supposed to answer that? ‘I—no,’ he said at last. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me. Only me.’
‘But why?’
‘Hell, Em, can we talk about something else?’ He slammed the door at the back of the Range Rover and stared at her with frustration in his eyes. ‘Okay. I wasn’t good enough for your mother, right? I’d been brought up in care and foster homes, and if I hadn’t scraped into university by the skin of my teeth I’d never have met your mother.’
‘So how did you meet her?’
‘That’s enough, Emily.’
Jake was saved from having to say anything more by the appearance of Isobel in the open doorway. Her cheeks were flushed, like her daughter’s, and Jake guessed she’d heard the tail-end of their conversation. Well, so what? he thought impatiently. Why shouldn’t Emily know the truth? Lady Hannah had had it her own way long enough.
‘Is—er—is that everything?’ Isobel asked, as he and Emily carried the last few bags into the hall, and Jake nodded.
‘Apart from the kitchen sink,’ he remarked drily. ‘You must have left that behind by mistake.’
Emily giggled, and even Isobel’s lips twitched with reluctant humour. ‘Good,’ she said, glancing about her as she closed the heavy door. ‘Now all we have to do is unpack it all.’
‘Where’s your mother?’
‘She’s installed in the conservatory, having a cup of tea,’ responded Isobel thoughtfully. ‘It’s the warmest place at the moment. Mr Edwards has started the Aga, but the upstairs rooms have barely got the chill off them.’
Jake frowned, reacquainting himself with his surroundings. The huge hall occupied the central portion of the ground floor, with twin staircases that fanned around the walls at either side before meeting on the galleried landing above. The walls themselves bore the imprint of the many pictures that had been removed and sold over the years, and, looking up, he could see cobwebs hanging from the eaves of the vaulted ceiling. Impressive it might be, but cosy it was not, and the look he exchanged with Isobel proved that she was thinking the same thing.
‘So, where is the old girl going to sleep tonight?’ he asked irreverently, and earned a reproving glare from his wife.
‘In her own bedroom, of course,’ she said shortly, bending to examine the assortment of bags and boxes. ‘I’ve brought her electric blanket and her own pillows, and Mrs Edwards says she’s aired the bed.’
‘Good for Mrs Edwards,’ remarked Jake, aware that Emily was listening to every word. ‘So, what do you want me to do? Take some of this stuff upstairs?’
Isobel’s blue eyes darted to his and away again. ‘There’s no need,’ she said quickly. ‘I can manage.’
‘I said I’d help you and I will,’ retorted Jake, not quite knowing why her words annoyed him, but they did. He glanced at the child. ‘Em, you go and keep your grandmother company while your mother and I start on the beds.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Just do it,’ said Jake, his tone brooking no argument, and with a resigned shrug Emily obeyed.
Isobel permitted herself another look in his direction. ‘Impressive,’ she said drily. ‘What have you bribed her with this time?’
‘This time?’ Jake was offended.
‘She says you’ve promised to send her some new game you’ve invented,’ declared Isobel, riffling though the bags until she found the ones containing the bedding. ‘Isn’t that true?’
‘Oh.’ Jake relieved her of some of the heavier items and started after her up the stairs. ‘Well, yeah.’ He paused. ‘She’s damn good.’
‘Does that surprise you?’
Isobel spoke scornfully, and he was stung once again by his need to defend himself. But this wasn’t the time to start a discussion on why their relationship had broken down, so, shrugging, he said nothing until she’d led the way into the huge bedroom that dominated the first floor.
Then his thoughts were quickly overtaken by his unwilling admiration for the apartment. Worn and shabby it might be, but the sculpted walls and ceiling murals were still as imposing as when Isobel had first shown him round the house more than a dozen years ago. The four-poster bed was stripped, of course, which robbed the room of some of its grandeur, but the bed-hangings had been brushed and someone had taken the trouble to clean the windows and vacuum the rug.
But it was cold. Despite the fact that it had been a fairly warm day, the sunlight had barely penetrated Mattingley’s thick walls, and the screened radiators creaking beneath an unexpected surge of heat had hardly raised the temperature.
‘Do you think I should light the fire?’ Isobel murmured, evidently forgetting who she was talking to, and Jake glanced doubtfully towards the tapestry-covered grate.
‘Maybe not tonight,’ he murmured. ‘Do you know how long it is since the chimney was swept? There could be a bird’s nest or heaven knows what else in the flue.’
‘Oh.’ Isobel put down the bags she was carrying. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘We can get a man in to check them all tomorrow,’ offered Jake, depositing his own burden. ‘I dare say there’s someone in the village who could do it.’
‘Or in Guisborough,’ agreed Isobel, mentioning the name of the nearest small town.
‘Right.’ Jake gestured towards the bed. ‘Shall we get started?’
Isobel’s lips parted. ‘You’re not going to help me make the bed!’
‘Why not?’ Jake arched a mocking brow. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
Isobel’s cheeks darkened with colour again. ‘Even so—’
‘You’re wasting time,’ he said flatly. ‘Whatever your mother thinks of me, I’m sure she’d welcome the chance to have an early night.’
Isobel regarded him doubtfully. ‘You’re being nice again. Why?’
‘Maybe I feel sorry for you.’ Jake used the words deliberately, knowing that nothing short of anger would stop her from looking at him in a way that was twisting his gut. ‘Now, do you want my help or not?’
Isobel’s lips tightened. ‘I suppose so.’ She opened two of the bags and pulled out four pillows and an armful of sheets and pillowcases. ‘I can always expect the truth from you, can’t I?’
‘I wish I could say the same,’ retorted Jake, not knowing why he felt the need to be so brutal. But when the colour in her face gave way to a strained pallor he relented. ‘Forget it, Belle. Let’s just do what we came here for.’
There was a bittersweet satisfaction in assisting her in making the bed, but it couldn’t help but remind him of other occasions when he’d helped her out, and of how they had usually ended up. They might not have had much money when they had first married, but they had had each other, and even the most mundane of tasks had provided an excuse for lovemaking.
Not that they’d needed any excuse, he recalled wryly. He hadn’t been able to keep
his hands off her, and tumbling her onto a newly made bed had been the least of his sins. He’d wanted her with a passion that had bordered on obsession, and pinning her beneath him, letting her feel what her body was doing to him, sliding his hand beneath her skirt—
He suddenly realised Isobel had been speaking to him and he hadn’t heard a word of what she was saying. He had been miles away, his thoughts taking him into areas that were better left undisturbed. But now he was brought back to the present with an abruptness that left him reeling.
Coming round the bed, Isobel brushed him aside and bent to tuck the sheet beneath a corner of the mattress. She had obviously expected him to do it, and he cursed himself for letting her distract him. But he couldn’t deny that as her slim fingers made neat work of the corner his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the provocative curve of her butt beneath the taut fabric of her chinos. He was aware, too, that his own pants had tightened for totally different reasons, and the sudden ache between his legs was painfully familiar.
God, he thought, stunned by the realisation, he still wanted her. Wanted to have sex with her, at least, he amended impatiently, his face hardening in frustration so that when she looked up at him all she saw was his irritation.
‘Well, I waited for you do to it!’ she exclaimed, obviously getting the wrong message. ‘What’s the matter? Is manual labour too boring for the great computer expert?’
It was the wrong thing for her to say. He needed a scapegoat and she was it. ‘What a sharp tongue you have, Grandma,’ he mocked coldly. ‘Be careful, Belle. You’re turning into your mother before my eyes.’
Isobel caught her breath at his deliberate cruelty. But it was as if he couldn’t be with her without remembering what they’d had; what they’d lost. And he was sickened by it.
‘You’ve changed, Jake,’ she said, finding her voice with an obvious effort. ‘Is this what Miss Duncan has done to you? Or perhaps it was one of the other women you’ve slept with over the years. How many of them were there? Twenty? Thirty? No, I think that’s too conservative an estimate. Certainly more than enough to compensate for one—supposedly—deliberate mistake on my part.’